If motherhood has taught me anything it’s to not assume. Ever. That old adage of what happens when you assume became an old adage for a reason: it’s true. For whatever reason, when mothers (myself very much included) spot other mothers out “in the wild”, we tend to give each other a once over. Whether that assessing gaze comes from
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I’m currently working through what (I hope) are the final days of a nasty case of bronchitis. I spent five of the last seven days with a seal-like cough, a dull headache, and a fever hovering right around 102, Tylenol be damned. Save a case of the flu and a brief but memorable visit from the Norovirus last year, this
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As you probably gathered from my presence on this blog, I’m a writer. And although this is the year 2015, I’m one of those rare writers who still writes first drafts with pen and paper. For me, making letters with my fingers is the most efficient way to pull thoughts out of my brain. From there I can “smash them,
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My husband and I decided to start “trying” in February of 2008. And we did. For three days, I think. But then we reconsidered. We were putting our house on the market that spring, and I’d only been at my job as a copywriter for a few months. Why add something else to our already very full plates? It just
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I became a mostly stay-at-home mother* a few months after our son’s second birthday. Around that same time, my husband’s work hours went a little kooky, often requiring me to solo-parent** our toddler from breakfast to bedtime several days in a row. I went from spending my days in a quiet office with considerate companions who let me go to
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When my husband and I first began talking about starting a family—both during the abstract musings of our first years of marriage and later on as the ifs morphed into whens—we always said we’d have two kids. He’s an only child, and I’m the youngest of three, and we each were leaning towards replicating the situation in which we grew up,
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Our son turns seven in November. He can read, swim, tie his shoes (for the most part), and ride a bike without training wheels. He is very much A Big Kid. Even so, this big bad first grader is still jumps at the chance to snuggle in bed and listen as his Mama reads to him. And, of course, I’m
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As I write this, my son is down the street at our neighborhood school experiencing his first day of first grade. Part of me would love to use this space to talk about all of The Feelings I’m having about this new phase in my family’s life, but I’ll spare you. Instead I’d like to channel my motherly nervous energy*
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One recent Saturday evening, I found myself sitting in a restaurant with my husband and son. About an hour earlier, after realizing neither of us could muster the energy to fix a meal, my husband and I made the rare decision to go out to dinner as a family. (It’s not that we don’t enjoy going out to dinner or
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I have depression—moderate depression with a side of crippling anxiety, if you want to get specific. I was first diagnosed when I was 23, although I suspect it began much earlier than that. It was only after experiencing panic attacks, heart palpitations, chronic insomnia, and regular and profound “low” periods that I sought medical treatment. I started taking anti-depressants and
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